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I believe we were meant to carry on with our day until the other proverbial shoe drops.
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5 mos ago
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I love you.
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5 mos ago
Veeeeiiilll!
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5 mos ago
Good night, Veilsight. <3 *passes out*
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Ooooooh... Shit. I am so sorry brother.
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Holy shit! Veil! I fuckin' missed you, bro!
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Bio
"I was scarred by choices not mine, but I choose authorship in every line."
I am a lifelong lover of Story. It doesn't matter if it is music, video games, movies, novels, TV serials, TTRPGs, or collaborative writing on a forum.
I am really glad to have found this site when I did. I have found community, and wish I had much, much sooner.
I have been enjoying, and crafting, characters and narratives for most of my life, and I treat formatting and imagery as part of the storytelling ritual.
Hoping to post regularly and build stories with others who care about the details.
Feel free to reach out!
^_^
^_^
Most Recent Posts
@Eviledd1984
As the morning went on, Caelum continued his sketch. He had grown content with his initial muse, and now patiently included the area arround until the page was full, which it was approaching as much.
He continued to hum his usual slow-burning elegy—haunting, restrained, and saturated with quiet emotion. Each breath unfurled the melody like smoke lazily listing across the lagoon.
From off to his left, he sensed a familiar presence approaching.
“Boo!” Loke’s familiar lilt—half melody, half trouble—cut through the morning hush. "Whatcha working on?” He leaned onto his usual shillelagh for balance as he peered over the parchment Caelum was consecrating.
He didn’t hide the parchment, nor did he offer it either.
"Good morning, Mister O’Toole,” Caelum quietly hummed—his voice warm in timbre, gradual in cadence. It didn’t need volume to be heard—low, ember-toned, and deliberate.
It was a greeting shaped like ritual, not mere routine.
“Just the lagoon from earlier,” Caelum murmured, continuing to shade a particular tree. “You know I sketch you all, now and then. When the muse is kind.”
He didn’t look up. The tree still needed its shadow.
A moment later, he was satisfied with the shade, lowered the parchment and looked up into the friendly face above.
”What brings you to the lagoon,” Caelum inquired. ”Is there something the Tinkers need of me?”
As the morning went on, Caelum continued his sketch. He had grown content with his initial muse, and now patiently included the area arround until the page was full, which it was approaching as much.
He continued to hum his usual slow-burning elegy—haunting, restrained, and saturated with quiet emotion. Each breath unfurled the melody like smoke lazily listing across the lagoon.
From off to his left, he sensed a familiar presence approaching.
“Boo!” Loke’s familiar lilt—half melody, half trouble—cut through the morning hush. "Whatcha working on?” He leaned onto his usual shillelagh for balance as he peered over the parchment Caelum was consecrating.
He didn’t hide the parchment, nor did he offer it either.
"Good morning, Mister O’Toole,” Caelum quietly hummed—his voice warm in timbre, gradual in cadence. It didn’t need volume to be heard—low, ember-toned, and deliberate.
It was a greeting shaped like ritual, not mere routine.
“Just the lagoon from earlier,” Caelum murmured, continuing to shade a particular tree. “You know I sketch you all, now and then. When the muse is kind.”
He didn’t look up. The tree still needed its shadow.
A moment later, he was satisfied with the shade, lowered the parchment and looked up into the friendly face above.
”What brings you to the lagoon,” Caelum inquired. ”Is there something the Tinkers need of me?”
Nah, I think she just cares a lot and was worried.
I would say Fairies would probably be faster at acceleration, but top speed may got to the ducks.
Looking forward to round 2!
In
(Mature) (18+) Looking for Longterm Roleplay Partner (F4M)
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11 mos ago
Forum: 1x1 Interest Checks
I like the third idea.
Caelum Emberhart woke before the sun, as he did each morning for well over a century. It was a ritual—like most things he did—that went mostly unnoticed. Silently, in the predawn hours, he would ascend to the heights of the Hollow with his personal lantern—a living flame contained within the shell of a walnut. Once there, he began once again tending to each and every one of his lanterns throughout the Hollow until his sweep of the ground level was complete—humming gently to himself all the while
He began with the first flame. Opening the mounted lantern, he waved away the fire with practiced ease. Then he cleared out the soot, ash, and whatever else had settled inside the vessel overnight. He inspected the frame, ready to tend or repair any failing element of its construction.
Today, the first stop finally needed attention again. Caelum fluttered beside it, rummaging through the dark messenger bag slung across his shoulder—crafted long ago by the Tinkers, still sturdy despite its wear and coating of ash.
He went to work, rebinding a corner with copper wire. Various items often got lost along the shore, but they had a way of becoming useful—repurposed into quiet legacy.
Once the lantern had been restored, he moved on. And then to the next. And the next. And the next...
By mid morning, Caelum had completed the first of his daily tasks. Around this time, the others would begin to stir. He used the lull to recover before his later duties. Today, he felt like sketching.
After dropping off his bag in the large, hollow log near the banks of the lagoon, he retrieved a sheet of parchment and a dry, sharpened twig. He settled into a reclined position among the gnarled roots of the log—his chair, bed, hammock, depending on the moment.
Once comfortable, he coaxed a small ember from the tip of the twig for just a moment before snuffing it out with a wave, sending smoke dancing upward. In the distance—behind the rising wisps—he noticed a subtle and familiar stirring.
Magnolia.
His gaze shifted across the lagoon. She emerged from her cottage, the little frog trailing behind her in uneven hops.
There was something in the way she stepped—measured, almost like she was trying not to wake the day too quickly.
Caelum recognized it. That quiet negotiation with morning. A small smile settled in, as he watched her path with the kind of attention reserved for things that ask nothing but still matter.
He let the charcoal rest against the parchment. Not to capture her—just the way the Hollow held its breath when she moved.
He began with the first flame. Opening the mounted lantern, he waved away the fire with practiced ease. Then he cleared out the soot, ash, and whatever else had settled inside the vessel overnight. He inspected the frame, ready to tend or repair any failing element of its construction.
Today, the first stop finally needed attention again. Caelum fluttered beside it, rummaging through the dark messenger bag slung across his shoulder—crafted long ago by the Tinkers, still sturdy despite its wear and coating of ash.
He went to work, rebinding a corner with copper wire. Various items often got lost along the shore, but they had a way of becoming useful—repurposed into quiet legacy.
Once the lantern had been restored, he moved on. And then to the next. And the next. And the next...
By mid morning, Caelum had completed the first of his daily tasks. Around this time, the others would begin to stir. He used the lull to recover before his later duties. Today, he felt like sketching.
After dropping off his bag in the large, hollow log near the banks of the lagoon, he retrieved a sheet of parchment and a dry, sharpened twig. He settled into a reclined position among the gnarled roots of the log—his chair, bed, hammock, depending on the moment.
Once comfortable, he coaxed a small ember from the tip of the twig for just a moment before snuffing it out with a wave, sending smoke dancing upward. In the distance—behind the rising wisps—he noticed a subtle and familiar stirring.
Magnolia.
His gaze shifted across the lagoon. She emerged from her cottage, the little frog trailing behind her in uneven hops.
There was something in the way she stepped—measured, almost like she was trying not to wake the day too quickly.
Caelum recognized it. That quiet negotiation with morning. A small smile settled in, as he watched her path with the kind of attention reserved for things that ask nothing but still matter.
He let the charcoal rest against the parchment. Not to capture her—just the way the Hollow held its breath when she moved.
We're gonna do a thing!
Never fear! Tomorrow is your day!
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